The Battle of Taillte
by John Creel
Summary: It all ends on the Hill of Taillte. One last battle to decide the victor of an age old conflict. One last struggle to decide who rules the world. Many say that this war was optional, but truly, was peace ever an option either? That is for the victor to decide. Rated T for violence and language.


**Author's Note:**

**I got bored and ended up writing this. It's just my take on the event, though do not expect complete historical accuracy. If I end up continuing it there would be only two more chapters. Nothing long, perhaps 15-20 thousand words max. Anyway, maybe some of you will enjoy it.  
**

* * *

**Hill of Taillte, circa 7500 B.C.E.**

The lush countryside stretched as far as the eye could see, its grassy fields and verdant forests swaying gently in the summer breeze. A golden sky with a faint tint of crimson overlooked the land, and the sun, the source of this morning glory, blazed just above the horizon. It was only the start of the day, but it was already sultry, and the warm breeze brought only a little respite from the summer heat.

Birds sang overhead, insects buzzed their way about, and little creatures scurried along the earth. The scent of hawkweed, which grew plentifully in the grasslands, was carried overhead by the wind, and many other floras graced the fertile expanse.

It was a beautiful day, and to all it would seem like just another in a long line of ordinary summer days. But that was not to be, for if one looked to the most elevated area of the rolling grassland they would see the sharp glint of polished metal reflecting the sun's rays, and a massive sprawl of tents that covered the green surface of the hill. It was an encampment, one of enormous size and formidability, and there it loomed on top of the hill, almost silent as the air nearly congealed with dreadful anticipation.

_The calm before the storm…There is no greater dread…_

At the highest reach of the hill stood Quan, an ancient warlock who had lived many thousands of years upon the earth he now stood. Yet those many years did nothing to prepare him for this. No one, not even he, had ever witnessed something of this scale ever before.

The army around him was composed of the diverse species that constituted the fairy people. Elves, dwarfs, sprites, centaurs, demons, gnomes, goblins; all of these differing peoples stood together under a series of vibrant banners, united against a common foe.

The humans, that's what their foe was called. A relatively young race of sentient beings that had only been building civilizations for a fraction of the time the fairies had. They had emerged over many millenniums, primitive in their ways and brutal in their tendencies. At first the fairies only gave them the slightest of interest, and even then it was the repulsed kind. The humans were seen as obsolete vermin; as creatures that were inferior to the great people that the fairies had become. Such a viewpoint had dominated their ideology for countless generations, and though it had once been legitimate, it was now a terrible miscalculation.

The humans, much to the dismay of their fairy counterparts, did something that the fairies could not. They grew at a rate that was appallingly fast, their population and advancements taking everyone by surprise. The civilizations of humanity appeared almost out of nowhere, and the People, so arrogant in their belief that the humans were not capable of anything bigger than a hunter-gatherer lifestyle, were far too late to adapt. Soon the humans spread to every continent, their new-found coordination and intelligence amplified by their might, and their desire for greatness fueling their perpetual efforts to become even stronger.

Quan had watched all of this happen over the years, and now, as he stood on the eve of battle, he knew that this moment was fated. With the rise of the humans, there was no way that the fairies could coexist with them. They tried, but both sides distrusted each other, and humans, after being subject to a long history of being mistreated and looked down upon by the magical races, were in no mood to compromise. That was how the first tensions began, and with the rise of the human civilizations and pressure of the fairy kingdoms, such would only get worse. After hundreds of years of political and social tension, all it took was a little provocation to spark a war between their species. And so, as was feared for so many centuries, the People went to war with humanity.

It was a bloody and merciless war, and Quan detested every moment of it. He had always been an intellectual and a pacifist, but as wielder of magic and a respected leader of the warlocks, he was automatically expected to defend the people—to use the gift of magic to destroy rather than to create. King Frond and the fairy council had left him little choice but to partake, as refraining from action was seen as an act of treason. Quan hated it, but he hated even more the prospect of his kind being wiped out by the humans. That could not be allowed to happen. Yet, despite such convictions, that was precisely what was been happening.

The war had spanned continents and centuries, and despite their efforts it was the fairies, not the humans, who were losing. Fairies could be formidable warriors and brilliant tacticians, but the humans were a species born in conflict and struggle, and they were far more brutal and resilient than the fairies could ever hope to be. Battle after battle had been fought, campaign after campaign had been undertaken, and with the ruin of hundreds of thousands of lives over hundreds of years, it all came down to this—a final battle that would decide who ruled the world.

Looking out over the summer landscape, Quan sighed in resignation. Truly, after all of his efforts to avert this, there was no other way it could end.

So occupied was he with these thoughts that he failed to notice the elf walking up behind him until a hand grabbed him by the shoulder. Startled, the warlock turned about to see who it was.

"You look nervous, old friend."

It was Aldreda Holen. She was the commander of the elven light infantry division, and an undisputed heroine of the People. Her skill with a blade was unmatched, and her character, fiery and courageous, made her a natural and respected leader. Everyone adored her, and she adored everyone in return, citing the existence of an altruistic side of her that was in many cases hidden by the ferocity she displayed in battle. Quan had known her for over a hundred years, and seeing her now made him feel a little better.

"I believe that we are all nervous," he said after a moment.

"Understandable," Aldreda replied, crossing her arms. "But we can't let it get to us. Not when the humans are mustering to destroy us all."

Quan nodded, studying Aldreda's hazel eyes and finding no fear or uncertainty within them. How he envied her strength!

"This battle…" Aldreda continued, looking off into the distance. "It will be the last I partake in. I will either perish in the field or succeed over the enemy, of that I am certain." Her hazel eyes were cold and there was a glimmer of torment within them. "After so many decades of fighting to survive, perhaps this will be the end of it. Perhaps I will find rest. One way or another…"

Quan frowned, but said nothing. Words could not impart enough of what he wished to express. He studied Aldreda anew as she stared off into the distance, noting the faint scars that marred her face. She had been in the war since day one, and had survived what most of her friends and family had failed to. Countless times she had almost died of her wounds, but countless times more she persevered and lived on; one of only a handful of fairies who had managed to be lucky enough to make it through since the beginning. But luck had nothing to do with it, at least not with Aldreda. She was a survivor, and nothing, not even the wicked blades or the piercing the arrows of her enemies, could keep her from living.

Despite the marks that her survival imparted, she was strikingly beautiful, her auburn hair glowing in the sunlight and her visage the epitome of reckless beauty. She was not the fair or delicately attractive type, but rather the dangerous, physically fit, and tough sort of female. Such made her popular with the male elves, but they never got remotely close to a relationship with her. Aldreda had already given her heart and soul—and incidentally her body—to her husband seventy years ago, and their marriage had been a perfect one that moved romantics to tears. Quan had attended the wedding, and he could still remember the beauty of it all. But such memories only served to make bitter his troubled mind. Aldreda and her husband's relationship had been forged in war, both of them being capable fighters and leaders within the elven ranks. They fought side-by-side in countless battles, their love a fire that made their skill in battle ever more passionate and dedicated. To say the least they were an unstoppable pair. Or so they had once been.

It happened ten years ago during a small skirmish in the lowlands. The humans ambushed Aldreda's contingent while they were encamped, employing their ruthless tactics in the dark of night. The assault caught the fairies off guard, and in moments over half of them had been slaughtered. For an hour the fight waged as Aldreda and her husband tried to move the survivors to safety, and it was an hour of hell on earth. And at its end, when their escape was cut off, her husband saved her from a human sharpshooter, taking an arrow that would have ended her life. It was a terrible moment, and it broke Aldreda completely. She lost all control, her grief and anger translating into one of the most horrific displays of killing a single fairy had ever done. She cut down all of the humans, one by one, until nothing but corpses remained—well over two-hundred men. She sustained mortal wounds in the process, but Quan had heard of the battle and reached her in time to save her. The same could not be said for her one true love.

Seeing Aldreda observing the rising sun over the golden fields, Quan could tell that she was thinking of him—the elf that had been everything to her. There was no sadness or anger in her eyes, because such emotions were cleverly hidden. But the lines on her face, and the way she rested her hand on her husband's sword—which she had carried since his death—made it clear as day. It would seem that ten years of living without him had done nothing to dull the pain. Nothing ever would.

The silence between them persisted as they thought their own thoughts. A gentle breeze washed over them, bringing with it a smell of flowers that helped offset the overbearing scent of smoke, sweat, and fear. It moved Aldreda's hair ever so slightly, but it did nothing to change her cold expression.

"Quan," Aldreda said softly, breaking the silence.

The warlock locked eyes with her, affirming his attention.

"I'm sorry to burden you with this," she continued, frowning a little. "But if I fall today, could you please take care of Elaine? I trust no one more than you."

Her words made a sad feeling rise within his chest. Elaine was Aldreda's only daughter, born eight months after her father's death. That poor girl, born into war and grief, had never seen her father, and rarely saw her warrior mother. She was currently being cared for by some distant relatives, but the arrangement was only meant to be temporary. Aldreda always spoke of the war ending; of being able to be a _real_ mother to her beloved Elaine. It was her greatest wish, and after losing her husband it was her only hope.

Quan could not refuse such a request, not after all they had been through together; not after how much he cared for her.

"It is no burden, Aldreda," he said softly, smiling a little. "I will do as you ask, but I know I won't have to. You will take care of Elaine yourself. You will make it through this."

The elf smiled, her cold eyes betraying sadness and yearning. "If only such dreams could come true." She then looked back into the distance, watching as a flock of little birds broke from the treetops and flew into the golden sky.

The two of them stood there in silence, the only sound being the hushed chatter of other soldiers and the clatter of shifting armor and weapons. Several minutes passed, and then, with a suddenness that did not surprise Quan one bit, Aldreda whispered.

"That's my greatest regret…"

Quan did not ask what she meant—he knew all too well. The sorrow of a widowed elf, and the shame of an absent mother, were the only two things that could make the hardened elf cry.

Aldreda did not speak again, content to watch as the sun rose higher into the sky. It was a beautiful day, and the fairies, so attuned with nature, felt a longing for it. But no such thing could be afforded today. The beauty of the moment would soon be drenched in blood.

A sound pierced above the relative silence, one of the army's trumpets. Its pattern was sharp and foreboding, and everyone instantly knew what it meant. It send a wave of dreadful anticipation through the camp, and for Quan it was the confirmation of the inevitable horror he would have to face.

Aldreda shifted beside him, her armor making only a little sound as she tightened her gauntlets. Her face was now set in a look of iron determination, and her eyes, previously cold and haunted, now burned with a fire that could only be described as legendary.

"Let's go," she said. "They'll be waiting for us in the front."

"Aye…" Quan said, following the elf as she pressed through the congested camp. _The time has finally come._

The two of them made their way through the areas that housed the main body of the army, passing friends and colleagues alike as they did so. Fairies of all kinds sat around cooking fires and makeshift smithies, eating what could be their last meal and ensuring that their weapons were sharp. None of them said anything, but their gazes were a clear affirmation of their confidence in the elf and the warlock. It made Quan frown a little. So many souls were depending on them, but for what? They needed heroes, but truly, in this terrible conflict, was there even such a thing? And if there were, what could even the greatest of heroes do against the overwhelming odds? Quan entertained this morbid thinking for only a few seconds, and then cast it aside. Pessimism like that would only get people killed, and he knew that Aldreda, had she caught him ever saying anything like that, would certainly leave a few bruises on his shoulder as a reminder of his stupidity.

It took several minutes for them to reach the front of the encampment, their journey taking them past the organized divisions of various fairy kinds that amounted to over ten thousand strong. When they were through the amassing ranks of infantry and their tents, the view opened up and gave them a clear sight of the fields below them, and, most importantly, the gathering of officers and royalty that stood a few yards beyond the encampment. Banners and messengers were clustered around them, but it was impossible not to notice the Elven High King, Erendael Frond.

King Frond sat upon a portable throne, looking into the distance as his advisers and messengers gave him updates on the situation. His heavy armor, of the utmost quality, was plated with gold and fine jewels, and his sword, which rested beside him, was the epitome of masterful craftsmanship. The way his armor glinted a brilliant gold in the sunlight gave him a godly appearance, and his visage, regal and composed, was shining with overt intelligence. At first glance many would think him a selfish and extravagant king, one who did not know the hardships of life. But that was not the case. The Frond line had always been a noble one, not in its status but in its acts and convictions. They had always been proponents of peace and prosperity, and in times of war they had always led their people to glory, fighting and bleeding alongside the common folk. This made them respected by all with few exceptions. Erendael was the continuation of thousands of years of tradition, and his reign, which had lasted for several hundred years, was commendable given the circumstances.

Since the start of the war the King had led the People, doing his best to keep them from falling over the brink. His practices were tough and sometimes merciless, but that was what war did to everyone. Countless heavy decisions that resulted in the loss of life had taken their toll on him over the years, and even though he was middle aged his golden hair was showing signs of grey. No one, not even the High King, could escape the horrors of war, nor brave the test of time. He was mortal, just as they all were, and he never dared consider himself anything but.

Quan and Aldreda walked towards the King's throne, passing the other commanders of the People's combined forces. Dmitar Grundin of the dwarfs, Nephan Screeth of the sprites, Cillian Tryndiran of the centaurs, N'zall Bludyn of the demons, Blazar Scalyn of the goblins, and Jarmil Kendth of the gnomes—together with Aldreda and Quan they represented the greatest leaders of the People's armies, and the symbolic unity of fairy kind.

"Finally decided to join us?" N'zall grumbled at Quan, his wicked teeth glinting in the sunlight.

Quan gave the other demon a glance, but said nothing. There had always been friction between those two demons—one a wise warlock and the other a brutal warrior—and over the years their interactions had not improved. They were polar opposites, and it showed all time.

The two of them continued onwards until they were before the throne. King Frond, looking up from a map to regard them, smiled only a little.

"Ah, my good friends Aldreda and Quan. I was beginning to wonder where you two were."

"My apologies for our tardiness, Your Highness," Aldreda said, bowing deeply. "We are at your disposal."

Quan had bowed as well, and voiced something similar.

King Frond nodded at them, but made a dismissive gesture immediately thereafter. "There is no need for such formality now. Not after all that we have been through together. Not on the eve of battle, when bonds of friendship and camaraderie should not be restricted by formalities and bureaucracy. You are two of my greatest officers, but you are also two of my greatest friends. So please, rest at ease."

Aldreda and Quan stood up fully, never taking their eyes off of their King.

"We heard the signal and came as quickly as we could," Aldreda said immediately, her tone grave. "You request our audience, and that can only mean one thing."

"Indeed," King Frond said, a frown slowly working its way across his face. "The human army has been spotted by our scouts. It marches on Taillte as we speak."

Quan nodded, seeing that the King had been reading a written report from one of the scouting sprites.

"How many?"

"Far too many to count I'm afraid," Frond replied. "However, the scout's best estimate was a hundred-thousand men, possibly more."

"Shades…" Aldreda whispered, trying to imagine the scale of the army. It was appalling to say the least.

"That is why I summoned you here," Frond continued, leaning forward. "We must make our final preparations for battle. We don't have much time."

Aldreda nodded resolutely, having already beaten back her shock. "I will have my division mobilized and ready within the hour."

"As will the rest of you, my friends," Frond said to the other commanders. They all voiced their commitment to their orders, and quickly rushed off to their respective units. Only Aldreda and Quan remained, but they only hung back for a moment. King Frond, after seeing that the others were out of earshot, looked at both of them with a sincere expression.

"I trust you two far more than any of the others, and my confidence in your abilities is absolute. I wish you well in this, and please, if the gods will it, survive what is coming. I am counting on you."

"I will do my best," Quan replied.

"As will I," Aldreda said.

King Frond smiled just a little, his regal face betraying the lines of age and overpowering stress.

"That is more than enough for me. Now go, do not let an old king keep you from your duties."

They saluted and left in silence, leaving Frond behind and hustling back into the camp. The smell of campfires and forges wafted around them, and the heat from them made the warm summer air shimmer. The promised warmth of the summer day was already taking hold, and it made everyone, especially those laden with armor and gear, sweat profusely. Neither Aldreda nor Quan paid any heed to its annoyance. Such was just another metric in battle—another force that would dictate the fighting capability of the army.

"I guess we'll be parting ways for now," Aldreda said stoically as they reached the area of the encampment that housed the elven regiments.

"Aye," Quan replied. "I'll be off to gather the other warlocks."

Aldreda stopped walking, but she kept her eyes on his. She smiled slightly, and even such a subtle gesture from her was reassuring. "I will see you in the field. Best of luck, old friend."

"Best to you as well," Quan replied, doing his best to smile in return.

He started to leave, walking onward into the camp, but he only got a few feet when he heard her whisper, ever so softly, the name that troubled her most.

"Elaine…"

Quan stopped abruptly, feeling her sadness as his own.

"I promise."

With that quiet exchange they parted ways, each seeing to the duties of war that rested on their shoulders. The blare of trumpets and the steady roll of drums made clear the orders that came from the commanders, and it set an ominous tune for the final stages that were to be the prelude to the brutal confrontation with the humans. Fires were doused and tents were dismantled; armor was affixed and weapons were strapped; banners were raised and along with them shouts of bravery. Words of hope, words of courage, and words of strength were loud and clear as brothers and sisters in arms bore each other's burdens—the burdens of fear and uncertainty. Thousands upon thousands of souls moved like the river flow, forming companies, battalions, regiments, and then entire divisions, to the point that their numbers spanned the entire hillside in an organized body of warriors. Armor and weapons glinted in the morning light, and overhead blazed its source, the golden orb of the sun bearing witness to beginning of the end—the dawn of a battle that would forever reverberate throughout the world and into the farthest reaches of time itself.

**Twenty Miles from Taillte**

The peaceful calm of the lush countryside was no more. The cheerful song of birds was replaced by the sharp cacophony of shifting armor and weaponry. The steady noise of flowing rivers and streams was drowned out by the constant roll of war drums and of the countless footfalls that matched their rhythm. The green of the grassy hillsides and valleys slowly gave way to varying shades of more practical colors, as well as the glint of shaped metal, as a solid mass of imposing figures washed over the land.

Tens of thousands of human warriors, of all creeds and origins, marched together as one, and their destination, however distant it was at the moment, was locked in their minds along with their ultimate intentions. Such intentions, after decades of prolonged warfare, were straight to the point and brutally simple. Destroy the People's last army. Such a violent goal had by no means been the norm a hundred years ago. If anything the strife and madness of war had made everyone hate the People, even those who had originally opposed the conflict. Humans had always resented the fairies for their aloofness, but it had never been absolute hatred. But when the war was sparked by mutual misunderstanding and distrust, and the blood of thousands of people began to flow in the streets and in the rivers of once peaceful lands, there was ignited a collective rage in humanity—a passionate desire to end the war by any means necessary, and by extension end the ones who had, from their perspective, started it. Whatever resistance to fight evaporated when fairy forces annexed human colonies, and when some of these invaders, particularly the demons, conducted wholesale slaughters of their defenseless populations. Truly nothing persuaded humans more than the death of their kin.

Before the onset of the war humanity had been a disorganized collection of agricultural settlements, frontier colonies, and autonomous city states. A few kingdoms existed, ruled by patriarchs and clan leaders, but they were nothing compared to the People's sprawling realms. Though humanity had grown enormously, they fought amongst each other over the silliest of matters, and there was not a moment when there was peace between them. But that all changed when their relations with the fairies reached a flashpoint. The war erupted almost by surprise for the humans, and it was clear to even the most selfish tribal leaders and kings that humanity had no chance against the People's combined armies if they continued to fragment and bicker amongst themselves. If they did not unite against the fairy threat, they were doomed to be wiped out one by one, subjugated or slaughtered by their self-absorbed fairy neighbors. That was the one thing that scared everyone enough to force a temporary alliance—a mutual enemy.

And so, for the first time in humanity's short history, there was peace among their kind, and unity in their ambitions. The many thousands of tribes and settlements from all corners of the land traveled to hold war councils; to decide the partition of power and the formation of organized armies. It was difficult at first, but the constant incursions by the People's legions left very little room for noncooperation. Necessity, more than anything, led to agreement.

Humanity's warriors were reorganized into fighting armies, trained and supplied by all of the contributing states. The commanders of each army were elected by the war council, who looked for men of superb caliber in both intelligence and strength. Warriors in body yet tacticians in mind—these were the leaders that men needed and incidentally yearned for. Many hundreds were appointed, and throughout the course of the war most of them perished in battle along with countless human warriors. It was a bloody struggle, one that pushed humanity to the brink, and for a while it seemed that all was lost. But it was when humanity was backed into a corner—threatened with total annihilation—that it truly reached its violent potential. Spurred on by the fact that there was no way out but to fight, humanity's armies regained ground on multiple fronts and pressured even the deeper reaches of the People's kingdom. It took over fifty years, but it all paid off when the People's armies were forced into full retreat, and their lands, once seen as impregnable, overrun. The humans laid waste to everything, such was their collective fury, and despite the fact that they had originally fought because such actions were committed against them, they failed to realize that they had become no better. But such was war, and such was the reality the world now beheld.

In the end, the war with the People took humanity to one last field of battle. King Frond and his allies were forced out of their capital city by a yearlong siege and into the countryside, where they managed to scrape together what remained of their armies. It was the People—not the humans—who were now on the brink, and all it would take was one last human victory to ensure their fall into oblivion. This prospect was the culmination of humanity's efforts, and as such all of its leaders were quick to support a final campaign against the fairies. Combining the entirety of their forces, the human factions created an army of the likes the world had never seen before. One-hundred-and-sixty-thousand men, all veterans of the war and fully equipped, was the final offensive action the humans were intending to make. Surely it would be enough.

The force was drawn together from numerous regions and amalgamated under one banner at the war council. There the human leaders decided who would command the most important campaign in the war. In the end it was no a difficult decision, for few of the human commanders had survived the war, and only one of them had survived a full thirty years of successive combat. That one man was named Acaed Sargon, and he was by far the most successful leader of humanity's forces. Over thirty years he had fought exactly four-hundred-and-sixty major engagements, and had lost only twenty of them. He was feared and respected by the People, and his warriors called him a god among men. But he did not believe such titles, and such pragmatism was another quality that made him ideal for the final command. The war council elected him by a landslide, and the day afterwards he embarked on the campaign, the massive army his to command. After twenty days of marching his force was now upon King Frond's last and finest army, and if his scouts were correct the elf was intent on making a stand.

_Noble to the end, but he is my enemy nonetheless._

General Sargon stood on a grassy knoll overlooking the countryside. From there he could observe as the army that had been entrusted to him poured across the land, its ranks stretching as far as the eye could see and followed by colossal supply trains. The dust that was kicked up by the thousands of feet cast a haze over everything, but Sargon was used to this, and he could see everything that mattered with more than enough clarity.

"A favorable day," he said as he observed the sky. "I would much rather enjoy it in peace and quiet while tilling my fields, but as with so many matters as of late, war will not allow it." He paused, noting the vultures that were beginning to follow the army from overhead. It made him frown. "Death follows us, and death awaits us. Such is the journey of a soldier in this war; seemingly doomed to fight forever." He looked to the horizon, where the golden sky met the green hills. "Hopefully this will be the last time we must draw our swords. Hopefully this is the last time I must orchestrate the spilling of blood."

His musings were interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of his scouts. The young man, no older than sixteen, rushed up to him with evident news, his tanned face covered with sweat.

"What is the word?" Sargon asked the boy.

"Just as you predicted," the scout replied, taking deep breaths. "The fairies are waiting for us at Taillte. The army gathered there is definitely Frond's."

"What is their strength?"

The scout frowned. "I couldn't be thorough in my examination; their patrols were very persistent. However I can say with confidence that Frond has amassed a force of over ten thousand swords. All of the fairy kinds are there as well, so they are diverse in their offensive capabilities."

General Sargon nodded, his face betraying nothing but a stern resolve.

"Then it will be a good fight. Such is fitting if it is to be the last."

He dismissed the scout soon thereafter, content with what he had been told. Really it was just confirmation of what he had suspected all along, but certainty was always better than assumptions, especially when it came to warfare.

General Sargon watched as his army progressed across the rolling countryside, knowing that every step it took forward was another step it took towards a point of no return. Once the battle began there was no going back, nor could anything but total victory or total defeat be the outcome. Though the end result was still an enigma, it was certain that both sides would be battered and worn by the end of the day. Even in victory there was defeat, because after all, war does not decide who wins, but rather who loses the least. Sargon was confident that he could ensure a relatively favorable outcome, but even then it would be at the cost of tens of thousands of lives. He was accustomed to accepting such losses—to deciding the fate of his men and knowingly sending them to die in the field of battle—it was unavoidable. But he still detested it nonetheless; one could not rationalize the tragic loss of life.

Watching as humanity moved ever closer to triumph or defeat, Sargon envisioned his Elven counterpart doing the same.

"So it has come down to this, King Frond," he said. "But you and I both know that this was fated. By the will of the gods, one of us will survive this terror, and one of us will fall. It may be you, or it may end up being me, but so be it. I just want this to be over. I just want for there to be an end to this foolish war. So let us cross blades, one last time, to decide who rules this world. In lieu of words and agreement, let the superior race take what is theirs through the shedding of blood and the reaping of lives."

Sargon paused, watching as the vultures circled overhead.

"No matter the outcome, they will have their fill."


End file.
